Queen of Sorrow
by Ichko
Summary: As the hour of Sansa's coronation dawns, the queen looks back upon the mountain of bodies that support the start of her new reign. One-Shot


**Queen of Sorrow**

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She walked slowly, yet certainly, the cold air making the small hair on her back stand despite the several layers of clothes and fur that she bore. The room was dead silent save for the echo her shoes made as she walked, a slow rhythmic beating upon the marble floor. All around her, hundreds of lords and ladies stood gathered, still as statues, unmoving, showing nothing, neither happiness nor sorrow.

And up ahead stood the Iron throne. Empty. Unoccupied. Imposing.

Hers.

As she approached, the lord of Casterly Rock stepped to assists her despite her requiring no aid, the man clad in the signature Lannister armor, a long crimson clock going down his back, a fluffy collar dyed red.

Finally coming to stand before the monstrosity itself and letting go of Jaime's hand, she turned towards the crowd and for the briefest moment, she felt fear before the all familiar feelings washed over her again.

Sorrow and melancholy.

"I hereby proclaim Sansa of house Stark, sole lady of the seven kingdoms, queen of the Andals, Rhoynars and the First men and protector of the Realm." Jaime Lannister suddenly spoke up beside her before producing a crow, she noticed neither cared from where and walked the two steps to stand before her, the simple silver band that was to be her crown adored with a single small sapphire.

' _A barren crown for the virgin queen.'_ She though and over Ser Jaime's shoulder, she began to see them.

Ghost appearing, mingling in between the statues that were now her subjects.

Lo there, she saw her father. Lo there she saw her mother. And she remembered. Her childhood dreams. Dreams of been queen, of been a loyal wife and bearing Joffrey many golden-haired children. Of living in warm King's Landing eternally bathed in sunlight. And from memories long repressed, she saw Eddard and Caitlyn's faces, the frowns that adored them at her childish proclamations. The frowns at her naivety. Naivety that will come to cost her everything.

Sansa began to wordlessly mouth 'I am sorry', yet before she can finish, the two ghosts vanished, blown away from a gust of cold winter air from the nonexistent windows within the throne room.

And the crown came to rest upon her head.

Two more ghosts appeared, more closer to the throne. Where as her parents were at the very doors of the room, the next two were right at the foot of the throne. One, she easily recognized as Tywin Lannister, but the other she knew nothing off. An older-looking man, what little left of his hair been coal-black and with piercing blue eyes, on his chest a doublet of the Baratheon stag covered in flames.

'Do your duty.' The wind hollowed through the pillars in the throne room just as Tywin started ascending up the steps, his timing perfect, coming to stand before her just as Jaime had moved aside.

'A crown does not give power.' before he bursts in a small flash of light, almost knocking her back into the iron throne, Sansa managing to slow down, make it look as she simply sat down.

For a short moment there was silence and memories flooded her mind again. Tywin Lannister was never a man for pleasantries nor subtlety. She remembered how he more or less ordered her husband to, for all intents and purposes, rape her, put a child in her.

"Long may she reign!" said Jaime next to her and two ghosts appeared at the front of the crowd.

Joffrey Lannister, his eyes sparkling a mad green as he looked up at her, his hands covered in blood. He was silent, at first before he started shouting, his face twisting into a feral snarl. 'Get off of my throne, you wolf whore!' the very swords of the throne rumbled. Next to him stood Robb, silent, calm, composed. The barest hints of a smile adoring his face, his blue eyes filed with sorrow and pride.

A thin red line appeared on his neck before becoming a fountain of blood just as the crowd spoke for the first time.

"Long may she reign!" and they were gone and for a moment, Sansa though that she saw blood on the floor on the two spots the two of them had occupied. The blood on Joffrey's hand and Robb's own blood.

All the torment she suffered at Joffrey's hand washed over her anew, all the nights she cried herself to sleep for the fate of her family resurfaced again. And all of it because of her. She was stupid, and she paid a great price for it.

"Long may she reign!" the crowd chanted again and three ghost appeared before her, all smiling up at her, but in different ways.

Margery Tyrell stood to the left, gently smiling at her, her one true friend in the capitol in her hour of need. As she stood there, for short moments, her smile would drop and Sansa would feel slight pricking from the swords of the throne beneath her, yet never enough to drawn blood, the pain not so different from pricking one's finger on a thorn.

On the right stood Cersei Lannister, bearing a smile of superiority, a smile that made her seem as if she knew some great secret that no one else did. When she was still at Winterfell, Sansa had loved the queen, wanted to be just like her. Now, as she looked at her, she wanted to get up from the throne, rip one of the swords imbedded within and hack her to pieces. Yet the strength and fury never came to her.

And finally, in the middle, stood a form considerably shorter than the other two.

Tyrion Lannister stood in the middle, a smile of pride on his lips and a goblet of wine in his hand. The man, the ghost, took a long sip of it before raising it in toast towards her, Sansa finding that the reverse order of things did not bother her as much as it once would have.

'My watch has ended… but now your watch begins.' Whispered the cracking fire at the base of the columns, fruitlessly trying to warm the massive room.

"Long may she reign!" and the final two ghosts appeared on the very steps of the throne.

Daenerys Targaryan and Petyr Baelish.

When she first met her, Sansa saw herself in Daenerys. Foolish and naïve, thinking the world would bent, break or revolve around her. The difference was, of course, the fact that the Targaryan girl had dragons. She had come, carrying many empty titles that her advisor was all too happy to list on every occasion and in the end those fanciful names were of little use against the walked. The girl had perished in the cold, frozen north. Her, her dragons and half the realm's lords. The second long night had come to an end at the price of the extinction of the house of fire, but Winter was far from over.

And when the dust had settled, Littlefinger had swooped in to the south, commanding the Vale and rallying the support of the North and Riverlands around Sansa, fully intent on becoming king and making her his queen. But at the gates of King's Landing did Sansa finally end Baelish's life. She wanted to justify that it was all for the sake of justice for all. Justice for everything that that one mad had set into motion. Justice for her family.

Yet she cannot justify her actions with that. The arrival of Jaime Lannister and what remained of the Lannister army was what pushed her into action. The two parties met, Jaime swearing allegiance to Sansa and Sansa only, honoring the last oath he had ever made. The girl realized that she had control of three armies to Littlefinger's one, here, at the open gates of the defenseless capitol.

And when she plunged a dagger into Petyr's heart, ending the life of her own powerful dark father, she expected the Vale lords to rebel. Instead, they looked on somberly before Bronze Yohn Royce spat on the still-warm corpse. And in complete silence did the four armies enter the snowy, cold city.

Looking at the ghost before her, she found him smiling, a mocking smile just like his personal sigil, the ghost of Baelish beginning to applaud her slowly, the sound echoing far across the room despite only Sansa hearing it.

And they were gone in the wind.

And Sansa stood alone, Queen over all of Westeros, ruling alone. With no great house to order her around, no dragons or undead to threaten her realm. ' _Mine'_ she though, but felt nothing inside. Instead, she felt the hot trails of tears rolling down her cheeks, yet her face remained impassive, neither chocking nor sobbing.

She looked to ser Jaime, lord Jaime now, the only one she knew in the sea of strangers beneath her.

He may not have been hand of the queen, but he stood next to her, as her equal. Not in power, but something more. They both had lost everything and had both wished for death yet kept on going regardless.

The Martells were gone. The Tyrells were in the hands of a cripple and the Reach as a whole was on the brink of civil war, disputing who should actually be lord over it. The Tullies were gone, the Arryns were expected to become extinct soon and Robin Arryn held next to no power, the Greyjoys were gone… the Starks of Winterfell were gone.

Jaime and her, they stood together, as the lord of the last great house and the queen of the seven kingdoms. The last mortals standing upon the pile of corpses that Westeros had become.

"In the game of thrones there are no winners, only survivors." Finally Sansa whispered, the tears nearly freezing upon her cheeks, giving her the name, the title that she will be remembered by till the end days.

The Queen of Sorrow.

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 **A one shot that depicts Sansa's coronations in the ruined throne room of the Red Keep. Based around a theory by GoT Academy (it might not be theirs, but I saw it there first) that it would be Sansa the one that wins the GoT and will go on to rule as a sole ruler, without a husband. It is a nice theory, if one can call it that, more of a prediction, I suggest you check it out. Those guys are really entertaining and base a lot of their stuff on real world history.**

 **Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed.**

 **Thank you for reading.**


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